


Trembling Hands

by luceskywalker



Series: Baker Street Chronicles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Bromance, Eventual implied Mystrade, Gen, John's blog, Johnlock bromance, M/M, Romance, Sherlock has a thing for French things, Sherlock is capable of actually being relatively normal, Sherlock/OMC - Freeform, Trembling Hands
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-24
Updated: 2012-10-24
Packaged: 2017-11-16 22:56:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/544761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luceskywalker/pseuds/luceskywalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few months ago, after the Irene Adler debacle, everyone who knows Sherlock would have said that having a proper relationship would do him a world of good. But we were wrong. We were so wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Unexpected Turn of Events

**Author's Note:**

> Timeline: January - August 2012, spanning the entire second season.
> 
> The canon of the show has some discrepancies in the second season - after they were on the plane in episode one, Irene says she let Sherlock have her phone for six months (so he could try and guess the passcode), but according to John's blog it was only three. Originally that was going to be enough but as the story has progressed and become more complex the extra time became necessary so to avoid taking it completely out of canon (more than it already is), I'm going to go with the idea that Irene gave Sherlock her phone in December, then reappeared and was 'defeated' in June. A week later was the Baskerville case, and then three months later, in September, Reichenbach happened.
> 
> Just as a point of reference, John is writing the blog in August, but everything with Phillip in this chapter is happening in January. Blog entries are formatted // _like this_ //. I'm sorry if huge blocks of italicised text hurt your eyes. It had to be done. This chapter is quite short but they will probably get longer from here on in.
> 
> I hope you all will enjoy this story as much as I'm going to enjoy writing it. It was inspired by a scene in _A Scandal in Belgravia_ when John says to Mrs Hudson, "Has [Sherlock] had any kind of girlfriend, boyfriend, a relationship, ever?...How can we not know?"
> 
> The title is taken from a song by The Temper Trap, which is one of my favourite songs of all time.
> 
> Oh god these are the longest author's comments in the world. But just one more thing: I am aware that 'psychopath' and 'sociopath' are terms that are no longer used, and that the definition of them that I'm using of is not exactly correct, however I am invoking artistic license here because I like this beginning as it is and it's the only place they're going to come up anyway. If anyone is curious, the definition came from the Penguin Dictionary of Sociology.
> 
> I think that's all I have to say, except that Phillip is mine and everyone else belongs to who they belong to.

**The Personal Blog of Dr John Watson**

Date: August 26, 2012

Title: An Unexpected Turn of Events

Body: // _During the first case that I ever helped Sherlock solve, Anderson accused him of being a psychopath. Sherlock snapped in reply that he wasn't a psychopath, he was a high-functioning sociopath. At the time I didn't really understand the distinction, and didn't think to look up the definitions until now. Psychopaths and Sociopaths are very similar, except for one important difference. Psychopaths can't love._

_Sherlock might not be "normal", and sometimes I seriously doubt that he's actually human. But I do know one thing: he's not a psychopath. I don't even really believe that he's a sociopath. But I'm getting ahead of myself. At the start of this year, and especially after the Irene Adler debacle, everyone who knows Sherlock would have said that having a proper relationship would do him a world of good. But we were wrong._

_We were so wrong._

_And so now I'm writing this from Sherlock's bedroom - his bed actually. There's nothing funny going on here though: tonight is what Mycroft calls a 'danger night'. Danger nights are when Sherlock is in serious danger of falling headfirst back into one of his many previous bad habits. It turns out that having a proper relationship didn't do him a world of good; it very nearly threw him unceremoniously off the rails that Mycroft, Mrs Hudson and I have worked so hard to keep him on over the course of the last eighteen months. I'm getting ahead of myself again. I'll start from the beginning._

_It was two weeks after Irene Adler sent Sherlock her phone for Christmas. We didn't have any cases on that week and Sherlock was, as usual, bored to the point of destruction. It was lucky that he put on real clothes that morning as opposed to lazing around in his pyjamas like he usually does between cases, because at half-past two we were visited by a potential client._

_He was a Frenchman by the name of Phillip Lefevre. He came to us because he was a huge fan of the blog and needed help with a case concerning his brother and some lost first edition books. The case is written up on the blog after the 'The Woman' entry, you can find out about it there. In this instance, the case isn't the important part. I could tell as soon as he walked in the room that this was no ordinary client. I haven't seen Sherlock that affected by someone since he met Irene Adler for the first time, and Phillip wasn't even naked._

_He was tall, almost as tall as Sherlock, but where Sherlock is slim in a way that only recovered junkies are, Phillip quite clearly worked out. His tight purple shirt showed off every curve of every muscle in his upper arms and left none of his six-pack to the imagination. His brown hair was, at that point, chin length, framing the sharp angles of his face and bringing out the brown specks in his hazel eyes._

_This is going to make it sound like I was in love with him but I'm only trying to make the rest of you understand what was so special about him. He was, apart from Sherlock, the most beautiful man I have ever seen. He was the kind of beautiful that only exists in ads for Calvin Klein underwear. Plus Sherlock has always had a weird penchant for French things, although he would rather die than admit it._

_The case Phillip presented us with wasn't anything really special, and I'm sure that if anyone else had come to us with it, Sherlock would have turned them away and told them that it was "excruciatingly simple"._

_But there was something about Phillip that drew Sherlock in straight away. Something that made him decide to take the case despite the non-challenge it presented. A case like this would ordinarily take Sherlock less than six hours to solve, but he managed to drag it out for three days. And at the end of it, instead of our usual dinner de-brief at Angelo's, Sherlock swept into the flat, all breathless, and informed me that Phillip had invited him to go for dinner at a trendy restaurant in Soho._

_It was like being hit with three tidal waves at once: John, I am continuing my association with an ex-client. Said ex-client just asked me on a date. I'm going to take him up on the offer. Not that it was any great surprise: even if no one actually says anything, ever, about Sherlock's sexuality, I always thought he was gay. Some of the things he said on that first night at Angelo's made me wonder if he was, and the fact that there's always an issue or two of_ GT _and_ Attitude _floating around the flat is what clinched it. It wasn't a surprise that he was asked on a date, either - if I had a quid for every person who has tried to pick him up, I'd be able to pay Mrs Hudson the next six months' worth of rent in advance._

 _The surprise was that he said yes. Usually he uses his "I'm married to my work" excuse. But not this time. I originally thought that it was just a behavioural experiment, but not even Sherlock is that cruel. Then I thought he had decided to go as a way to prolong the inevitable between-case boredom; despite the fact that the blog was attracting quite a few people there was no guarantee that there would be any new cases straight away._ //

John paused his typing for a moment, and glanced down at the sleeping man next to him. He had been struck with the sudden concern that his typing would wake Sherlock up, but the detective was still well and truly out of it. John would even go so far as to describe Sherlock's sleep as 'peaceful', which was a nice change. He was curled up so close to John that the doctor could feel Sherlock's body heat against his right leg, although there was no contact. 

John knew that as soon as he lay down Sherlock would gravitate towards him, and that by the morning the detective would practically be lying on top of him. The doctor didn't really mind, though. Such close proximity was strangely comforting. If John was asked, he would say that it was comforting because he could be sure that Sherlock was alive and breathing and not doing something stupid, but he wasn't entirely sure that that _was_ the reason.

John shook his head and turned his attention back to the blog he was drafting. He wouldn't ever post it, obviously, but he needed to get the thoughts out of his head and drafting a blog post was a good way to do that.

// _There was something in Sherlock's demeanour that made me change my mind about that. He seemed...'excited' is the wrong word but I can't think of one that fits better. He came into the flat, announced that he was going on a date, as if that was the most natural thing in the world, and went into his bedroom before I could even formulate a response. A few minutes later he came out in a clean suit which was even nicer than his 'every day' ones, a silk shirt and his good Italian leather brogues with his hair brushed and looking artfully dishevelled. As he walked past to retrieve his coat and scarf I caught a whiff of the cologne that he had only ever worn a handful of times before._ //

 

_ Eight months earlier, January 2012... _

"You smell nice," John said as Sherlock shrugged into his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"Thanks. I know," Sherlock replied, glancing at the doctor with one of his vague half-smiles. "I'll be back in a few hours. You don't need to wait up."

"Okay, enjoy yourself!" John called as the detective rushed back down the stairs with a little spring in his step. John heard him bid goodbye to Mrs Hudson, and moved over to the window to watch the street. A few seconds later Mrs Hudson came into the flat and joined him at the window.

"Am I dreaming, or is Sherlock going on a date?"

"You're not dreaming. Sherlock is going on a date. Apparently."

Mrs Hudson gave John an odd look, but said nothing. They watched in silence as Sherlock headed towards Phillip, who was leaning against the lamppost, waiting. The two men exchanged greetings and set off down the street. As they rounded the corner and passed out of John and Mrs Hudson's field of vision, the landlady raised her eyebrows at John. "Well. Miracles do happen."

"So it would seem," John replied with an amused smile. “Would you like to stay here and have dinner with me? We can catch up on _Downton Abbey_ and then watch for Sherlock through the window.”

"That sounds lovely," Mrs Hudson replied. John went to the kitchen to make the tea and Mrs Hudson sat down on the sofa, settling in to await Sherlock's return.


	2. The Dancer and the Detective, Part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I should warn you that not much happens in this chapter, but if I didn't cut this in half then it would end up being close to 10, 000 words and that's a bit long for a single chapter XD This part is five pages as it is. The next part will focus on the actual date.
> 
> I have discovered that writing Sherlock accurately is actually harder than writing Spock accurately and I've never really done either before so just bear with me here. It's a bit of a learning curve. Hopefully I don't take him too OOC (or OOC at all). I'm trying my hardest not to. My headcanon Sherlock is almost the same as Sherlock in the show except I daresay mine has a different relationship history than what Moffat and Gatiss' version have, and probably thinks differently about relationships in general - and therein lies my problem. But hopefully I've done okay. Just let me know if I haven't.
> 
> There will be quite a bit of French in this story, so when you come to anything written in French just hover the mouse over it and the translation should come up :) But in case that doesn't work, the translation is in the endnotes.

_January 2012_

Sherlock Holmes was, generally speaking, not a man who was interested in romantic liaisons. He had experimented at school, of course, most people do, and he had also had his fair share of relationships, but every single of of them had ended badly and so he decided long ago that relationships - and the emotions behind them - were not worth the trouble. It wasn't that he didn't feel desire or any other kind of attraction, he did, but that he simply did not have the time or inclination to acknowledge or act on those feelings. His mind was the only important thing; everything else was simply transport. 

He watched John have girlfriend after girlfriend, so many - _but probably not really that many_ \- that Sherlock lost track of them. Each relationship ended in a less than satisfactory way and yet John would always enter into another one as if he didn't learn from his mistakes. Sherlock didn't understand why John would set himself up for such hurt. 

Because if Sherlock was honest with himself, he wasn't so busy with cases that he couldn't make time for a relationship. He could. And he could allow himself to feel attraction, desire, love...all of those things that ordinary people were perpetually preoccupied with. But Sherlock knew how it felt when relationships ended and he had no wish to feel that, ever again. 

Surely, he thought, there could be nothing in the good parts of a relationship that would justify the pain felt at the end. Surely, there was no one worth the effort.

And then Phillip Lefevre walked through the door.

The case Phillip presented had been ridiculously simple, the kind he normally wouldn't even give the time of day. But the man who brought it to his attention _was_ worth the time of day. 

Sherlock knew he was French as soon as he laid eyes on the other man, before Phillip even opened his mouth and spoke two words in that lovely accent (typical of northern France, with hints of Belgian; most likely spent early formative years in Belgium and moved to France between the ages of five and seven). When he wasn't in the room Sherlock couldn't remember exactly what he looked like, just that he was tremendously good-looking. But it wasn't just his looks - there was something else about him that Sherlock was instantly drawn to, and he couldn't resist taking the case, much to the surprise of not only John but Phillip as well. 

Of course, due to the simplicity of the case Sherlock had solved it by the end of the first day, but he made a point of exploring every avenue of investigation that he could. He pretended that he was accumulating more data when his real motive was to spend as much time as possible with this alluring Frenchman. He knew he was acting like a lovesick teenager and on some level he loathed himself for exhibiting the same pathetic behaviour he usually ridiculed in others, but for the first time in a long time he allowed his heart (because he did have one, really, no matter how much he tried to pretend he didn't) to muscle in and take precedence over his head. 

He didn't expect anything to come of it - of course he didn't. He knew what he was like as a person, knew that he wasn't normal and that it was highly unlikely that anyone would ever want to be with him.

So it was a very understandable surprise when on the third day after Phillip had sought his help, when Sherlock couldn't prolong the case any longer, the Frenchman asked if he wanted to go to downtown Soho for dinner. Sherlock could read the signs. Phillip fidgeted nervously, tripping slightly over his words as he spoke in a rush to get them out, biting his lip and holding his breath as he waited for Sherlock's answer. 'Dinner' wouldn't be a casual meal as thanks for solving the case, or a wind-down from the adrenaline rush of chasing criminals like it was with John. This was an invitation to go out on a date. The first proper date Sherlock had been on in seven years.

As if it wasn't perplexing enough that Phillip wanted to go on a date with Sherlock, Sherlock also wanted to go on a date with Phillip. Being asked on a date after solving a case for someone was not an unusual thing - it tended to happen more often than Sherlock would like - but never before had he actually wished for it to happen, and never before had he wanted to accept. 

Sherlock usually didn't feel this excited unless there was a string of strange and baffling serial murders. He had been dreading having to say goodbye, most likely forever, to Phillip. But now he didn't have to. And for the first time in a long time Sherlock _wanted_ to go on a proper date with someone. He _wanted_ to have a relationship. 

"Sherlock?" Phillip's voice cut through the 100-mile-a-minute workings of Sherlock's mind. "Are you alright? Did you hear me?"

Sherlock shook his head to clear it. "I heard. Sorry, I was just thinking and my mind ran away from me." He gave Phillip a small smile. "Dinner sounds wonderful."

Phillip grinned. "Good. I know a fantastic place not too far from here and before you ask, no I'm not telling you where we're going."

As Phillip turned and went to walk in the direction of the restaurant, Sherlock suddenly realised what state his clothes were in. "Actually, do you mind if we stop by my place first so I can change? I've been running around in this suit all day." Sherlock gestured behind him. "The flat's just up there, it won't take long."

"Sure," Phillip replied, turning around to follow the detective. "So, you share a flat with John?"

"Mm-hmm," Sherlock replied, already able to predict where this conversation was going. "Before you ask, we're just friends."

"Really? So...there's never been anything more between you?"

Sherlock chuckled dryly. _If I had a pound for every person that asked me that question..._ "No, we've never been more than friends. We'll never _be_ more than friends. John is very straight. And quite a ladykiller, actually."

"Really? John is straight?" Phillip raised his eyebrows and Sherlock's nod. "Wow. My gaydar must not be working very well."

"Not just yours. Everyone we meet automatically assumes we're a couple, even if they meet John first. It's quite funny actually...he always vehemently denies it, which of course only makes it worse." Sherlock looked over at Phillip, catching himself smiling again. "You've got nothing to worry about with John."

"You two do act a lot like a couple. I thought you were, to begin with, until you mentioned his girlfriend. But I'm glad that there's nothing to worry about," Phillip added, grinning mischievously at Sherlock. "I wouldn't want to be in competition with him. I might be forced to hurt him and I don't want to do that because he seems nice."

"He is," Sherlock replied. They lapsed into a comfortable silence, content to just be in the other's company. Outwardly Sherlock was calm, but inwardly he was running through all of the things that he would have to make sure not to say. _Nothing insulting, nothing offensive. No deductions about looks, weight, or potentially embarrassing activities. Don't inform him that practically everyone is an idiot. He's nice. Just be...nice. Be like John. John doesn't ruin conversations. Before you open your mouth, make sure what you're thinking is something that John would be comfortable saying. That will be a good strategy. John goes on dates all the time. He must be good at it._

Phillip was sneaking sidelong glances at the detective, admiring the way the city lights illuminated his face. Sherlock was so beautiful that it was almost painful to look at him for too long, but Phillip couldn't look away. There was something almost magnetic about him, something enigmatic and irresistible. He was unlike anyone Phillip had ever met before, and ever since he met Sherlock in person he'd wanted to get to know him better. 

But there was something else, too. Something lurking under Sherlock's calm veneer...Phillip couldn't put his finger on what it was, exactly. He just couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to Sherlock than met the eye, more to him than anyone knew. There was something there that no one could see, either because they didn't want to look, or because Sherlock was too good at hiding it. 

The Frenchman mentally shook his head. _Don't psychoanalyse him yet. At least have dinner first. Remember what your grandmother always said. Tout se passe mieux avec l'estomac plein, sauf natation. Dinner, then psychoanalysis. Better yet, no psychoanalysis at all._

"Here we are," Sherlock announced as they rounded the corner into Baker Street. "Do you want to come up and wait while I change?"

"Uh, yeah sure," Phillip replied with a smile. And then his phone rang. "On second thoughts," he said as he pulled it out of his pocket. "It's my brother. I'll just wait here and take this."

Sherlock nodded and headed inside as Phillip answered his call. He closed the door behind him and leant against the wall, taking a few moments to regain his composure. _Breathe. Inhale. Exhale._ He was so nervous . _Why are you nervous? You're never nervous_. It felt like his heart had migrated up to his throat and was beating out a rhythm against his larynx. 

It occurred to him that he couldn't stay in the hall all night. He leapt up the stairs, taking them two at a time. John was sitting on the lounge reading the paper when Sherlock walked through the door.

"You're home late," the doctor remarked, not looking up from the _Times_ as Sherlock shed his coat and scarf and hung them on the back of the door. "Case solved?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied. He straightened his jacket and turned to John. "I'll have to take a rain check on Angelo's tonight. I have...other plans."

John kept hold of the bottom half of the newspaper and allowed the top half to fall backwards so he could look at his flatmate. "Other plans."

"Yes."

"Okay. _What_ other plans?"

"I'm going to dinner with Phillip," Sherlock announced, and then turned on his heel and went into his bedroom before John could say anything else. 

Sherlock closed the door and looked at his reflection in the mirror. He grimaced. His suit - which had been clean that morning - was so covered in dust from the storeroom where he found the missing books that it looked dark grey instead of black. He wasted no time in stripping it off and slinging it onto his bed to deal with later, and then pulled his wardrobe open to appraise the contents. 

It would help if he knew where they were going, but since he didn't he decided to err on the side of caution and choose an outfit based on what Phillip was wearing. The Frenchman was still wearing the formal suit and tie that he wore to his cousin's wedding that day, having gone to the Yard with his brother to fill out the necessary paperwork straight after the afternoon reception. 

With that in mind, Sherlock forewent one of his normal everyday Spencer Hart suits and selected one of his better ones (the Hugo Boss; ever since that night in the pool with Moriarty, Sherlock hadn't been able to even _look_ at his Westwood suit), and pulled it out, along with a white silk shirt. 

He dressed quickly and sat on the edge of his bed to lace on his good patent Italian leather brogues and then stood and moved over to his dressing table. He picked up the two bottles of cologne that sat on the left hand side and sniffed them both, trying to decide which one would be more appropriate for the occasion. Making a choice, he sprayed it on and then set about trying to tame his hair. Christ, he needed a haircut. After a few moments it was looking much less like he'd just gotten out of bed and more like he'd spent hours trying to make it _look_ like he'd just gotten out of bed. 

He took one last glance at his reflection and, satisfied, went back out into the living room to get his coat and scarf.

"You smell nice," John said as Sherlock pulled on his coat and wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"Thanks. I know," Sherlock replied, one corner of his mouth twisting up in amusement. "I'll be back in a few hours. You don't need to wait up."

Even as the words left his mouth Sherlock knew that John would wait up anyway, but he let it go and turned to leave, all but running down the stairs. John's reply of "Okay, enjoy yourself!" reached him as he stepped onto the first landing, but apparently carried all the way downstairs as Mrs Hudson was waiting at the bottom of the steps for him, wondering where Sherlock was going on his own.

"Going out again, Sherlock? Do you have another case?"

"Nope," Sherlock smiled at his landlady, taking her by the shoulders and kissing her on the cheek as he passed. "Better!"

He stepped through the front door and pulled his coat tighter around his body against the cold. Phillip was still talking on the phone, leaning against a lamppost. As Sherlock approached, the Frenchman hung up the phone and turned around. "Ready to go?" he asked with a grin.

Sherlock nodded and turned the collar of his coat up against the wind. "Where are we going?"

Phillip gave him a mysterious smile. "Somewhere nice. You'll find out."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed in mock-exasperation, unable to resist smiling back. He didn't turn around to see if John and Mrs Hudson were watching him from the window. He knew they were. Really, what was all the fuss about? He was going on a date. That was all. He'd been on dates before. People went on dates all the time. At one point John had had a date every second night. Sherlock could feel their eyes burning into the back of his head, and he felt much better when he and Phillip turned the corner and were no longer visible from the flat.

On the way to the restaurant they talked about the case. Phillip was curious as to how exactly Sherlock had solved it, and the detective was, of course, more than happy to explain his deductions and conclusions in minute detail. Then Phillip told Sherlock about the wedding he'd been to that morning - or, more accurately, complained about it. Phillip liked weddings even less than Sherlock did. The taller man listened with understanding as Phillip vented about everything he'd had to pretend to like, the hideous dress, the ridiculous ceremony itself, and finally the frankly awful icing-covered brick they tried to pass off as a fruitcake.

"And don't even get me started on the speeches. The best man tried his hardest to be funny but he really wasn't. It wasn't even funny enough that people could tell it was supposed to be a joke and laughed politely - you only realised that it was meant to be funny after he paused, and then kept talking. Fortunately he was so far up himself that he didn't really notice."

Sherlock chuckled, remembering a similar speech at the last wedding he'd been dragged to.

Phillip exhaled, realising that he was complaining about his family to someone he barely knew. "I'm sorry. I met you three days ago and already I'm whinging about my relatives. I'm probably boring you."

"No," Sherlock shook his head. Strangely enough, it wasn't boring at all. It was the kind of thing that would ordinarily bore Sherlock beyond belief, but he found himself wanting to listen to Phillip talk about himself forever. It was bizarre but also sort of...nice. Sherlock hadn't felt this way about someone for a long time. 

He turned to look at his date - and just thinking those two words was enough to make him stupidly happy. His date. His _date_. _His_ date. _...Stop it._ \- and smiled. "I don't mind, really. I know exactly how you feel; the last wedding I went to was exactly like that. Listening to the best man's speech was the single most awkward experience of my life. He was also most emphatically _not_ funny. I haven't been to a wedding since that one, and thank God. I hate weddings."

Phillip was smiling at him strangely and Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "What?"

"Nothing," Phillip replied. "Just...I think we're going to get on very well."

Sherlock found himself smiling back. "I'm inclined to agree."

_To be continued..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Tout se passe mieux avec l'estomac plein, sauf natation_ means 'Everything is better on a full stomach, except swimming'.
> 
> Just so that you don't think it was a mistake, being in a relationship does not necessarily equal proper dating, especially if the two participants already share a room. (*hint* (I'm not talking about Sherlock and John though.))


End file.
